


The Father, The Son

by Godspeed_Cowboy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anger, Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Brutality, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Execution, Gen, Hatred, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Injury, Rebellion, Reincarnation, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Hatred, Violence, Visions, and early morning, failure - Freeform, it is like 2 am here and my old hyperfixtations are coming back to haunt me, lowkey prophetic visions, plus i need to write something every now and again, that isn't naruto, why is is that my best writing always happens at the crack ass of dawn, wrote this because I got really inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27601858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godspeed_Cowboy/pseuds/Godspeed_Cowboy
Summary: From The Father comes The SonFrom Kankri comes Karkat.From The Signless comes another Sufferer.
Relationships: The Disciple & The Dolorosa & The Psiionic | The Helmsman & The Signless | The Sufferer, The Disciple/The Signless | The Sufferer, The Dolorosa & The Signless | The Sufferer, The Psiioniic | The Helmsman & The Signless | The Sufferer
Kudos: 18





	The Father, The Son

**Author's Note:**

> So. Homestuck.

Red, hot, iron shackles, the one thing which holds you up from the ground, suspended against the rock, arms raised above your head as your body is bared for all to see.

Around you, the arena of highbloods chitter, contemptuous laughter echoing throughout, mocking, insulting, undermining. They point at you as they do so, and their words are just as grating as their giggles. They call you a number of things, crude names and slurs galore, pouring from their lips. They want those things to hurt you somehow. But they do not know their efforts are for not, and at this rate, they never will learn. 

From the thrones, the Empress smiles down at you, saccharine, and cackles like the witch that she is. The Grand Highblood doesn’t even hide his howling, his wild gaze focused on the bloodshed before him. Orphaner Dualscar is much more quiet in his merriment, a hidden smirk sent down, cruel eyes which wish for nothing more but for there to be pain upon you.

The sound of an arrow flying through the air, and it embeds itself under your ribs, making a home under your skin with the other two that jut out from your chest and shoulder. Rivets of candy red blood fall from the wound, spurting before flowing down. You grimace, yelp, and the highbloods cheer, loud, rancorous in their applause.

But it does not block out the cries of your friend, your lover, and your mother. The cries of your family.

Your friend, The Psiioniic. Your friend, Mituna. His swears are loud and his lisp is at its most prominent, and he struggles against his bindings as he attempts to get to you to save you. His tears, yellow, are that of desperation. You want to tell him to stop struggling, that he’s only giving them what they want, but you don’t get the chance to tell him to never lose hope when you pass. Another arrow, this time lodged in your thigh, keeps you from saying anything.

You grunt in pain as your red tears blur your vision, and the crowd cheers again. Another hit landed on Alternia’s Most Wanted War Criminal.

Your lover, The Disciple. Your lover, Meulin. She begs from where she’s chained to the ground, begs for your release. She yells your name, “ _Kankri!_ ”, before a guard hits her in her face. You want to scream at the guard. She gets back up and starts again. She, too, is desperate, but hers is different from Mituna’s. Her desperation is far more frantic, driven by her love for you. You wish she did not love you so passionately, for now it only seems to warrant the pain of fists and feet which are relentless in their force. Her tears flow freely, a beautiful olive color, and she is unashamed as she keeps yelling for you.

“Freak!” someone yells.

“Mutant!”

“ _Monster!_ ”

Your mother, The Dolorosa. Your mother, Porrim. Her cries are muffled behind her hands, head down, and a guard grabs her by the back of her head and forces her to look at you. Her eyes meet yours, and her jade tears well up in her eyes as she lets out a long, loud sob. You understand, for she is watching as her son gets slaughtered before millions. You look away.

You want to laugh. Ironic how they consider you the monster when all you wish for is peace, for equality of all blood colors. But you keep your lips sealed. Surely, your amusement would only make this worse. Another arrow, but it misses. The crowd boos.

There is no mistake there. It is a known fact that Executioner Darkleer does not miss. So that only means one thing.

They are making a show of your execution. They are dragging it out for as long as possible. 

It is a torture of the highest degree. 

When the next arrow comes, it lodges itself in your hip. The crowd cheers again, your family cries louder.

Those cries, they hurt just as bad as your physical wounds.

You look back up at The Empress, and she stares back, triumphant.

(Once, you knew her as Meenah, but this is not the Meenah you have come to know through your visions. This Meenah is crueler, colder, and far more self-centered than you know she should be.)

(Once, you knew them all. Now, you know few. Peace was possible, but it would not come with you or with the people here, never with the people here. But the least you could do was give them something to start with, be the one to take the leap of faith.)

(There is a reason you were bestowed with these visions, and you would carry out this purpose, a mission for the greater good, even if it kills you. You will speak your truth through sermons and prayers, and your message will carry on through written word and hymns.

You wish you could live on to see it.)

And suddenly, you are filled with _anger_. Hot and vile and obliterating, scathing like the Alternian suns.

It is anger towards the injustices which take place now, anger towards the highbloods and fellow lowbloods, and anger towards _yourself_.

And it’s like The Empress sees this sudden flood within you, because her smile is gone, replaced with something akin to confusion mixed with displeasure. You snarl at her as your tears fall freely. She does not like the change, and it shows. The others notice.

Your sudden silence irks them.

They want noise from you? Oh, you’ll give them some _noise_ , alright.

You throw your head back, and you _scream_.

It is a sound unlike any other, and it’s louder than any cheer or cry on the planet. You pour everything you have into it. The audience recoils, slaps their hands over their ears. Those who failed to cover their ears in time writhed on the floor, sharing your pain. 

The sound you make is The Vast Glub incarnate, hellfire and brimstone and all such things of that nature.

And when you die, the crowds do not cheer. All they feel is an echo of you. And your family’s sobs quiet down to nothing.

(The moment he screams, a new era is formed.

The soul separates from the body. 

From The Father comes The Son.

From Kankri comes Karkat.

From The Signless comes another Sufferer.

There is one thing they share, and that is pure rage. Wrath so powerful that it stretches across sweeps, eons muddled together, fury that seeps through the veil, from the ancestor unto his descendent. A torch passed down with the hopes of growing bigger, burning brighter.

It is an unfortunate gift that he will be given, and that gift is the vicious heat of self-hatred. An unfortunate gift but a necessary one.

A leader born from the ashes of war will rise again, the cycle of rebirth unrelenting even for him.

And it is through Karkat’s soul that Kankri will live vicariously.)

A candy red grub hatches from his egg, squealing before he quiets down.

The caretakers wonder why he came into the world so loudly, but decide it will not matter, for in the end he will be culled anyways.

They decide to name him Karkat, for the hell of it.

And when they do not find the grub the next evening, they do not think to blame one of their own for sneaking him out and giving him to the crab lusus miles away.

**Author's Note:**

> hope y'all enjoyed lmao. Kudos and Comments appriciated!


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